Afraid To Speak We Dare To Breathe
by swans a melting
Summary: You watch her always. You had to at first, it was an essential part of your job. And then one day it all changed. (tw for very very mild implication of violence)


You watch her always. You had to at first; it was an essential part of your job. Keep an eye on Miranda. Make sure her every whim was catered to before she was even aware that it was her whim. Keep her coffees hot and her coat at the ready. Be sure to ring Roy to pick up the girls from Dalton, telephone Stephen's assistant to let him know she'd be cancelling their lunch. Easy. You'd been good at it, even if it had been tedious to begin with, but it hadn't caused any great dramatic upheaval on your part. It was just your job, so you did it. And then it all changed.

It had been an October morning, crisp and cool like any other. You remember it well, you and Nate had argued the night before, and you'd gone into work still brimming with anger, but it had all washed away as easily as sandcastles on the tide when you saw Miranda. Something was different. Something had happened. You could tell from the way she held herself, how she was poised over her desk, her head turned away from you, mouth curved into a sneer. That, of course, was usual, as was her dry "Andrea" as she acknowledged your presence, but the bruise, purple and blue like the flowers on her windowsill, was not.

Your breath hitched; she stared you down, daring you to say something, anything about it. It marred the top of her perfect cheekbone, the corner of her eye. It looked sore, and slightly swollen, and you could tell instantly that it was that that was what had caused her change in demeanour. You watched her staring at you, blushed a little, and dropped your gaze to the floor. There would be two outcomes of you asking about it; either she'd tell you, or she'd curl up her nose and throw you out the office, no doubt blacklisting you from every publication in the city for such a nosy invasion of her privacy. You're still only about four months into the job; you have not yet been jaded by the fashion world and its toxic ideals. You still want to desperately prove yourself and move up in the world. And so you said nothing, merely handed her the cup of Starbucks you'd been holding and retiring to behind your desk without a word.

Miranda didn't come out of her office all morning, and nor did she summon Emily, choosing instead to call you, and even then you weren't very busy. You knew why that was; you know Miranda and all her little foibles, and you knew them then too. At lunch time she marched out without a word, took her coat from where you stood with it, waiting, and you watched her retreat with long powerful strides. Woe and betide any minion who dared cross her path that day.

Later on, when you had to take the book, you were far more nervous than usual – you didn't know how she'd got that bruise, but you could certainly surmise – Miranda Priestly was not the sort of woman to walk absently into her kitchen door. The twins were staying with their father, so Miranda was presumably alone in the house with Stephen, and you tiptoed in, putting the book down before swinging open the cupboard door to stash away the elegant trench coat you'd picked up from the dry cleaning. In your haste, you knocked down one of Stephen's overcoats from its peg, and with a hissed "shit!" you bent to pick it up, clumsily putting it back where it came from, when there was a sudden cough behind you and you whirled around, eyes wide and guilty.

Of course it was Miranda, arms folded and one eyebrow raised, dressed in a soft red mohair sweater and a creamy coloured skirt that swished round her knees. You swallowed. Damn she looked good. She winced a little as she lowered her eyebrow, for it was on her injured side, and you stepped forward, mouth open, about to speak, when she cut you off with an airy "that's all" before you'd even formed the first word. She picked the book up off the table and began to walk back into the den, and you dithered for a moment, unsure of whether you were supposed to take that as your cue to leave or not.

"Andrea, tomorrow get Emily to pick up those skirts from Vera's people," Miranda said coolly, just as you hand your hand on the door, and you scurried towards her, nodding in acquisition. "And cancel that meeting with Irv. I have to speak to Stephen."

"I-Irv?"

She looked at you like you'd grown a second head. "Yes, Andrea, Irv," she said. "I wasn't aware it was your place to question my decisions." The look she gave you was poisonous, and clearly painful – one of her hands flung up involuntarily to touch the bruise. You couldn't help it; it had been torturing you all day. "Are you alright?" you asked, and the instant you did you felt better, for to blatantly ignore something that concerns you could never feel right.

Miranda sniffed, looked you up and down. "I'm fine," she said brusquely. "I…it's worse than it looks." She didn't offer anything else, and you said "oh" in a small voice, still not at all reassured. "Do you want me to get anything for it?" Well it was worth a try asking. You didn't like her very much but you didn't want to see anyone hurt or in pain. "No." Her tone was flat, and final. "I put some cream on it last night and it's significantly gone down; I'll just keep on doing that." That wasn't very reassuring either – the bruise was terrible, and the notion that it had been worse was not a pleasant one. She sat down rather heavily all of a sudden, curling her legs up underneath her. "Good night, Andrea."

It was after that everything changed. Roy drove you home, and you got into bed cold with fear. You hadn't seen Stephen. Where was he? Had he done something to her? God, if he had and you get hold of him – you curled up your toes in anger, clutching at your sheets. Perhaps you were wrong to be so presumptuous to think such a thing, perhaps she merely had had a moment of clumsiness after all. You didn't know, and you supposed you'd never know, for you didn't dare ask and you know she'd never tell you. You fell into a fitful sleep, full of Miranda and her poor pale, marked face, and she was crying, sitting on the floor, saying she didn't want to talk about it, for it made her want to weep…you woke up determined, your heart set.

As an assistant, it was your job to keep an eye on Miranda, to make sure her schedule didn't fuck up and her days went alright; well, you'd be doing the same thing still, only this time it was just a bit more personal. You didn't know how to make sure she was alright in any other way, you'd just have to watch her and see that everything healed up nicely, and – most of all – that nothing worse happened. You still felt to a certain degree that you were just were being dramatic and presumptuous, but at the same time you felt it was better to care more than necessary than less. (Oh, how you would regret that later.)

And so watch her you did. Of course you had before, but then you'd only _looked_ at her, you hadn't _seen_. And oh how you saw. You saw a whole different side to Miranda, a new depth to La Priestly that you'd never even considered existed before. Why would you, she was just your bitchy old boss. But now it was different, now you cared, and so what you saw was like a sweet and beautiful revelation, and you wallowed in it. For the first time, you became truly aware of Miranda's magnetism, you could see what it was about her that so easily drew people in.

You saw how she would subconsciously rub her nose whilst working, the way she gave a tiny sigh of pleasure when her coffee was just right. You found yourself striving to make more of those tiny sighs occur. You saw how lines crinkled round her eyes when she frowned, and how she lit up when she smiled. You saw sunlight shining on her perfectly white hair and thought rather sentimentally how much she looked like some kind of angel. And where you had been good at your job before, now you began to excel. Before, when you'd looked at Miranda, you'd been able to get what she wanted quickly and efficiently, but it had been unnoticed, and ungracious. Now you were perfect, because by truly looking at Miranda and thus picking up little hints of the real women beneath the polished veneer of control, you enjoyed actually making things nice for her. You began to take pleasure from Miranda's pleasure, sadness from her darker moods.

It took a month and five days for the bruise to heal up, and whilst nothing terrible did happen to Miranda, you were still glad you'd taken the time to truly get to know her, without ever exchanging any meaningful words other than your responses to her requests. Seeing Miranda without the bruise again was lovely, but at the same time, you were rather sad. You didn't want to stop loving Miranda like that, didn't want to stop making her happy or watching her little ways. That was when it hit you like a load of bricks; of course you loved Miranda. Somehow, somewhere along the line, between trying to induce her little sighs of pleasure at a good cup of coffee and smiling to yourself about the shine of her hair when the light hit it, you had fallen in love.

You hugged this knowledge to you like a treasure, used it as a light to put inside you and fill you up to the brim so you laughed aloud as you drank with Nigel, and he shook his head teasingly at his Six and her big crush on her massively hot middle aged boss. You didn't think of it like that really though. Yes you might giggle about it with Nigel and diminish it for a joke, but truly, Miranda had grown to mean so much to you that you didn't think you could ever let her go. It was terrifying to think you would, that you year would one day be up and you'd be off doing bigger and brighter things away from the boss from hell – how had you ever longed for that day? The notion now was abhorrent, and you cried bitterly at the thought that one day you'd never see Miranda again, though at the same time you regretted them. Make the most of the time you have, you thought. Save your tears for later.

And so you did. Miranda was beautiful and utterly unknowing of your love, you were sure, and that hurt, but you knew that you'd never have a chance with her so you did your best to let it go. (You never knew how much she loved you, never knew how hyper-aware she was that you could read her so well, never knew how attached she got to you, you, her wonderful glowing excellent assistant that now she felt was so much more.) You took note of all her clothes – the suits were your favourite, although you still had a weakness for her softer clothes, for her jumpers – and you continued to make yourself indispensable, working yourself to the bone to make sure that Miranda was happy and well. That was all you wanted, to ensure that Miranda would be alright before you left and left her to the fate of someone who'd never know her as well as you did – how could they, for they would never dream to look at her the way that you have.

Then one day there was a change again. You were sat at your desk, waiting, and she never came in. You went to the townhouse to find her, your heart pounding, for she didn't answer your many phone calls, and you were terrified, terrified, of what you were going to find. You unlocked the door with your key that you kept on your person at all times, and the house was silent and cold. "Miranda?" your voice echoed in the silent hallway. "Hello?" She wasn't on the ground floor and you hesitated before going upstairs, the memory of the Harry Potter incident and what had happened last time you'd tried it uncomfortably present at the forefront of your mind, but you bit back your nerves and went up anyway. If Miranda wasn't in then no harm would be done, but if it was, and something was wrong – well it was essential that you went up those stairs.

You called out again on the first floor, where all the studies and the girls' game room were, but there was still no reply, and you went up again to the second floor; the girls' bedrooms. Again, no response from Miranda, and swallowing, you went up to the third and final floor, Miranda and Stephen's personal suite. You paused for a moment outside the many closed doors, taking in a deep breath as you gazed at the barriers before you. Whether Miranda was there or not, beyond them lay the heart of Miranda's private life, and you hesitated on going in, sure that this was crossing a boundary that could never be replaced. "Miranda?"

Her bedroom was simple and refined. The bed was large and soft looking, draped with Egyptian cotton sheets, a tasteful light blue throw tossed casually over it. The whole room was done out in various shades of white and cream, with the odd dash of blue shimmering here and there, and you couldn't help but smile to yourself as you thought how very like Miranda the room was – it looked so cool and elegant, but underneath, occasionally, you were treated to those flashes of blue, those glorious lit up moments of Miranda's personality.

However, one thing for sure was that Miranda certainly wasn't in there but there was another door slightly ajar to your right, with a frosted glass panel set into it – and, you realised with a jolt, there was a dark figure huddled against it. Heart in your mouth, you dashed towards it, and of course it was indeed Miranda, slumped in a bathrobe on the floor by the en suite, her head drooping heavily to one side. You dropped to your knees beside her, a choked "Miranda!" escaping your lips, and her eyes seemed to glaze as she saw you, her breathing speeding up and she struggled to pull herself to her feet. You eased her back down.

Neither of you said anything. Miranda was blushing and trying to desperately brush away the few tears sliding down her face, and you just crouched there, clutching, you realised, at her hand. It was warm and ridiculously soft, and your heart constricted a little. How many times had you dreamed of taking Miranda's hand?

"Oh, there you are." Miranda's voice was blank of any emotion. "I wondered if anyone would be sent to find me." She fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve absently, her hair unbrushed and limp, flopping before her face, and you thought how ludicrous it was – how could any woman be as beautiful as this? Miranda was always divine no matter how well made up she was, but to see her like this, tired and stretched, not a trace of makeup on her face, was an entirely different sort of beauty. She looked raw and real and exposed, and you wanted to hold her face and kiss her and cry, pouring out your soul so that she knew, and would always know, just how much you cared.

Of course you didn't. You took a breath, sat down beside her, looking at the floor. "Are you alright, Miranda?" you asked. "Are you ill? Is it the girls?" It scared you to see Miranda so silent, so defeated in her stature. She was sitting there like she'd fallen down, the weight of the world on her shoulders a too heavy burden to bear, and it still pinned her where she'd landed, unable to rise up against its power. Her shoulders drooped. "No, I – I'm not ill." She sighed deeply, shuffled in her seat. "The girls – the girls are fine. They're not here. They're at their fathers." Miranda took in a great shuddering breath. "Caroline and Cassidy have decided they would like to stay with their father for the next year."

Her voice conveyed no dramatic anguish, but the quiet shaking in her tone spoke of devastating overwhelming emotion, and her shoulders didn't shake with sadness, they drooped forward like this was all inevitable, like Miranda was resigned to this fate. "Oh, Miranda," you breathed. "It must be so hard, I'm so sorry." God, those girls were the world to Miranda. You tentatively reached out and placed one hand very softly on her knee, and she tensed a little, but relaxed as she let out a deep shuddering breath. "I don't see them enough, apparently," she whispered, and her breath hitched. "They don't think that I love them anymore. They don't think that I care!"

"Well, that's not true!" You injected a note of cheeriness into your voice that you didn't actually feel – your heart was breaking for Miranda, and if you felt like this, then goodness only knows how terrible she must feel…the cheeriness was a must. "You love those girls and I'm sure they know that too." Miranda looked uncertain, and, marvelling at your braveness, you reached your hand up to gently squeeze Miranda's shoulder. "You're a good mother." You laughed a little. "I mean look at the lengths you go to too make sure they're happy. I know all about that thanks to Harry Potter." Despite herself, Miranda's lips twitched slightly, and you smiled brightly. "Perhaps they just want to experience life with their father for a bit, get to know what he's like. It's not a reflection of you."

Miranda rolled her head to the side and sighed again. "Oh Andrea you're very sweet," she said tiredly. "But if I'd been there, if I'd not worked so hard, if I hadn't focussed all of my energies into that damn magazine – this wouldn't have happened. They never wanted to live with Greg full time til now! He just - he plies them with presents and charm and they fall over backwards to be with him because I'm just never ever there!" It was the first time you'd ever seen Miranda get anything close to overworked, and the moment was surreal, watching her wave her arms in animation, your heart pounding like a drum. Did she really think you were sweet?

She got up, tying the cord of her robe tighter around her waist. Her face was flushed with anger and you quickly stood up to be on a level with her, unsure of what to say. She was blazing and bright, and could only watch as she opened her mouth and continued to pour out words and emotion, choking on her life choices and how they had taken her away from her precious girls. You weren't even sure that she knew that you were there, at least, maybe she didn't realise it was you, Andrea. Maybe it was inevitable she'd have spilled out her worries on someone in the end. She finished with a snap, gazing helplessly into your eyes, staggering forward suddenly as you rushed to catch her as she nearly fell.

"Have you eaten anything today?" you asked softly. "Come on. It's long past lunch time." You eased her into a chair in her bedroom, and went with the promise of food and tea down to the kitchen. The kitchen was as impressive as the bedroom was, all gleaming utensils and polished wooden floors, but the fridge was well stocked with easy food that you were used to, and you cobbled together a chicken sandwich, hoping beyond hope that it would be acceptable for Miranda and her no doubt refined palate. Nate was the chef, not you.

You took the sandwich and a cup of tea up to Miranda on a plate, and she took it worthlessly, motioning you to sit in an adjacent seat as she began to pick at the food. She nodded slightly. "Thank you Andrea," she said. She took two bites, wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. "For everything." She fixed you with her sad, hollow gaze. "As an assistant you've gone above and beyond the call of duty for me, and I truly appreciate that." You smiled, unable to keep in your pleasure at her approval. Miranda never, ever thanked anyone for anything. Truly she must have meant it when she called you sweet. "I'm ashamed you had to see my earlier outburst," she sighed, setting down the plate and picking up the mug of tea. "I'm sorry anyone had to see that. Everything just suddenly became too much."

You watched her nervously tap her fingernail on the rim of the porcelain cup. "It's not just the girls, you know," she said archly. "There's other things too. Work and Stephen, and – and long buried emotions that I couldn't leave for dead." She sipped the tea and sighed. "Andrea. There's so much that I…" she paused, tilted her head, considered. "Oh, I don't know." The room was warm, and she untied the robe, revealing a pink silky negligee underneath. It looked absolutely divine and you had to take a moment to still the gasp that tried to force itself from your lips at the sight of her. "I mean look at me!" she said derisively. "It's nearly four in the afternoon and I'm still in my pyjamas!" She nibbled the end of her glasses. "What must you think of me?"

You were sure that her assistant's opinions were the last thing Miranda normally cared about. "I don't think badly of you!" you protested, opening out your arms in a demonstration of peace. You weighed up the dangers of speaking your mind but decided if Miranda had let your conversation go this far it wouldn't help to take it a little further. "Literally, Miranda, there's nothing to be ashamed of in a moment of weakness." You blew out in disbelief. "I mean, I don't think that this even is weakness! You're just tired and…and overworked, and honestly I'm surprised that this hasn't happened sooner."

She raised her eyebrows at you. "You think I can't cope with my workload?"

"No…no, of course not!" you snorted slightly. "I think what you do is incredible, and your passion and drive is inspiring. I just think that most people would be entirely exhausted by what you do, and I know you're not 'most people', but oh Miranda, you're only human. It's natural that you'll have off days, days when all you can do is sit in your pyjamas and cry. And I mean you're going through a tricky patch with your girls and Stephen, so…so I don't think badly of you at all. I think you're kind of wonderful." The words just spilled out of you, pouring from inside and you were hardly aware of what you were actually saying, the amount of effort you were putting into trying to convey to Miranda somehow, in any way possible, that she was worthy and that to break down a little was honestly okay.

Miranda listened to you talking with one eyebrow raised and her lips pulled to one side, and when you stopped, panting for breath slightly, her face was so stony and unreadable that for a moment your stomach lurched in terror and you panicked that you'd said too much, got too carried away. You wanted to open your mouth and apologise, but somehow you could barely force your mouth open and you just sat frozen for a moment, Miranda's eyes locked on yours. Time seemed to hang in the air before you. Miranda's measured breathing was all you could hear, and you weren't sure you were breathing at all. Perhaps this was all a dream and when you wake you'd find yourself back in Ohio with no job prospects and a bad haircut still.

And then Miranda smiled. Slowly and gloriously, she smiled, and it was like sunlight was pouring into the room as she lit up entirely, the smile deeper and lovelier than any you'd seen grace her lips before. "You think I'm wonderful, do you?" she asked severely, but her eyes were twinkling and there was a laugh in her voice as you visibly relaxed before her. "Well, that's very nice, it makes a change from my employees thinking I'm the devil herself." Miranda stretched out her legs. "That little outburst reminded me a bit of the first time you walked into my office," she said. "You haven't lost any of that same fire that first attracted me to you."

Att-attracted to you?! Jesus, you knew it was – probably - only a figure of speech, but it made your cheeks flush bright red and your stomach stirred again, but it was an entirely pleasant sensation this time. "I could never hate you," you said simply. "I didn't like you much at first because you were so harsh, but over time I grew to entirely respect what you do and understand why you have to push us so hard to achieve perfection."

"You saw me, didn't you," Miranda said. "I could tell. I could tell that something, somewhere – though I wasn't sure exactly sure when – changed. I could tell that suddenly you were seeing mch more of me than what was on the surface.

You nodded. "Erm yeah I did," you said. "It was…it was when you had that black eye." You paused a little, uncomfortable, because you still couldn't be sure of the circumstances of that and you didn't want to upset or trigger Miranda, not when this was going so well. "I was – well, I was scared something awful might happen to you. So I started to truly look."

Miranda scratched her cheek thoughtfully. "The black eye…" she murmured. "Yes. A reminder of a battle long lost and forgotten," she said. She looked up at you and your great concerned dark eyes. "I remember, that night, when you asked me if I was alright," she said suddenly. "You looked at me like I was the most delicious thing you'd ever seen." She smirked a little, teasing you, and you stuttered out some kind of nonsense trying to deny it, but if she'd worked it out, if she'd known, all along, of your attraction to her….

She held out a hand towards you and you got up awkwardly as she drew you in towards the window. You looked out at the road, the buildings opposite, and a lone car rolling by. "You weren't the only one who can see things deeper than what they are, Andrea," she said softly. "When I spoke of old emotions that I should have left for dead – well, it is a long time since I have loved a woman." You were breathing rapidly now, hardly able to hold back your tears – was this genuinely really happening? Was Miranda Priestly – _the_ Miranda Priestly, who you had cared for from afar for so long – really confessing her love to you?

"It twisted up inside me," she continued. "I was so convinced I could never have you, despite your clear attraction to me, because of society and decorum and all that nonsense I should never have held onto…and yet here you are, and I'm telling you," she said. Miranda reached up and brushed a stray hair out of your eyes. "And it's like all that sadness has been washed away."

"Miranda I…Miranda what can I say?" you choked. "I just – I the same way. I love you, I've loved you for – for so long!" Oh god, it was happening, and now the time came you were standing here with your mouth open like a codfish, unable to convey the depth of your feeling towards her. She was so eloquent and you simply couldn't say anything, choosing instead to dip forwards and seal the distance between you with a kiss. Miranda's lips were soft and pliant, and she responded passionately, pushing her arms around your waist and you raked your fingers through that elegant, iconic hair. You were laughing a little as you pulled apart. "Well," you grinned. "I'm glad I don't have very good subtlety skills!"

"So am I," Miranda breathed, stroking your back and beaming. "So am I."


End file.
